


Blood on Snow

by nicpic



Series: Partners [4]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jean POV at beginning, Jean Whump, M/M, but with very little comfort, could be slash among any of the main three, jeangst, then Kim POV, theyre all so fucking sad, you decide ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26790814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic
Summary: Harry whips his face in your direction, eyes filled with manic terror. Three things happen at once. The blare of the radio alarm system installed into the building crackles and wails into frenetic actuality. Dawning horror alights on pallid faces as Pidieu begins to make his frantic announcement. Harry whispers two words feather-light, and they drop like weights in your gut: “It’s Jean.”
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi, Kim Kitsuragi & Jean Vicquemare, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Partners [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927078
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	1. Pale Women in Pale Dresses

It’s snowing. The stone pressing against your back is fucking cold, even through the thick fabric of the RCM uniform. Clouds swirl uncaringly above, like pale women in pale dresses dancing their youth away, all without you. Flecks of ice melt transparent as they land on your coat. You don’t mind. You don’t really mind anything anymore. It’s getting hard to think. 

Warm liquid drips down the left side of your head. It quakes, disastrous hypocenter a few centimeters above your intact ear. At least the bullet didn’t take that off. Your own gun lies beside you.

The black, shiny plastic of the payphone dangles from a cord. Dim light reflects off of the raised seam running along its side; you can faintly see yourself, a smudge of color against the black. A panicked, muffled voice repeats your name. Over and over. Maybe you should’ve tried to call the shitkid. 

The snow sends shards of feeling up your spine as each speck of white lands on the angry red comprising your right abdomen. You laboriously press harder. It  _ hurts _ . You should’ve finished off your flask when you could still move your arm. It presses mockingly into your lower back, under you.

Snow must be melting in your eyes; they fucking sting. You feel a drop roll down the side of your face. It’s warm.

This was always how it was going to end. You, bleeding in a ditch. Your partner — no, he’s not your fucking partner anymore — off somewhere too far away to help. Knowing him, probably with Kitsuragi, somewhere warm. Somewhere where you can’t touch them. They’re smiling, all without you. 

The clouds continue to delicately pirouette above, eddying in and out, fitting together in divine design, beams of sunlight mending the seams between, like gold pouring into cracks in the pavement. They were meant to be, and you are below, covered in grievous scarlet. A gruesome aberration.

You smile at the callous heavens. They are beautiful _ ,  _ cruelty and all. The world gently spins away, like an errant top. The greys become deeper. The clouds lower until they hang expectantly over your lungs. Waiting. 

You close your eyes and rest. They’ll be fine without you. They always were.

. . . 

You and Harry are staying in the precinct today, in between cases and filling out paperwork. It’s nice; it is bitterly cold out and the precinct has the heater clunking away a floor down, vents diverting heat into the shared office-space you are working in. Torson and McLaine are on the opposite side of the room with Minot, idly chattering. At one point,Torson slams a meaty hand against the Patrol Officer’s back. You wince in sympathy.

You look back to your desk. Neat, orderly piles of paper cover the farthest edge. Several files of differing thickness lean on a metal rack. A single mug, reading “WORLD’S BEST  DAD COP,” containing six pens, is set beside them. You smile. 

You take a moment to glance at Harry’s desk. He is sleeping, draped across his desk, drool wetting the document below him. You go back to work.

As you fill out all the necessary sections and sign on the correct lines, Harry suddenly and violently jerks up from his seat. You look. Everyone looks. It is strange; they usually ignore him.

The detective’s eyes are perilously stormy: of fog lacing between precarious railings as the stratosphere rumbles terribly above, aerostatics refusing to go in air. He is staring out the window, into the grey sky, into the fresh snow. He does not even twitch. He stands frozen, half out of his seat, hands compressed excruciatingly into the battered surface of the wooden desk, turning the tips of the fingers white. You push up your glasses. The precinct holds its breath.

Harry whips his face in your direction, eyes filled with manic terror. Three things happen at once. The blare of the radio alarm system installed into the building crackles and wails into frenetic actuality. Dawning horror alights on pallid faces as Pidieu begins to make his frantic announcement. Harry whispers two words feather-light, and they drop like weights in your gut: “It’s Jean.”

“CODE 25. CODE 25. VICQUEMARE HAS BEEN SHOT.” The words vibrate and clatter on the floor. A fraction of a fraction of a second of perfect silence, snow falling gently outside, then the precinct explodes. The announcement continues and lists out an address as you surge out of your seat, seize the familiar jacket hanging upon it, and strap your firearm to your holster. Harry simply bolts out of the room. Just as the other three officers make to follow him, the mahogany door behind you slams open. 

“MINOT, TORSON, MCLAINE,” Captain Pryce yells over the chaos. The three freeze and turn. The jacket wraps around your shoulders. “Stay  _ here _ .” He directs a piercing gaze in your direction. “You and Harry and Gottlieb will go. Secure the area and  _ make sure he does not die.  _ Do you understand?”

You nod, jaw clenched. You run, distantly overhearing terse objections from Minot to Pryce, insisting she should follow, until you wrench open a door and fly down the stairwell, boot on metal echoing off of the suffocating walls. Another door and you burst into the garage. Harry sweats in the passenger seat of your Kineema, knee bouncing like hell. Gottlieb clutches a kitted-out black leather medical bag and strides towards the carriage, lips tight and pale. You rush into the open door, the detective hands you the keys, the door bangs as Gottlieb slams it shut, keys into ignition, and then the roar of the 12-cylinder engine rumbling its dire clarion call behind you.

Pidieu raises the accordion metal gate and you shoot out into the grey, into the white, down the road, dusty snow trailing in your furious wake, sirens screeching tempestuous reds and blues into the broiling sky. You reach 100 kmph in around 13.5 seconds, potential routes and shortcuts hurtling by, all the while feeling Harry’s desperation and hope burning hot into your stiff back.

. . .

Tires screech across stone as you arrive on scene. The ambulance is not yet here. There are two bodies, both clad in black: one lies face down in the entrance of an alleyway. Another is farther away, hard to see slumped behind a public pay phone. A light layer of snow dusts each. Four minutes. Tops. A small crowd is beginning to form.

Harry jumps out the vehicle before it completely halts, eyes locked on the figure further away. He sprints, Jamrock Shuffle especially disorderly. You scramble out of the leather driver’s seat, and then Gottlieb and you are pounding across cobblestone, following Harry’s blazing trail. You cast an assessing glare around the vicinity — there seem to be no other aggressors. 

Harry is kneeling when you arrive. Red on white; blood on snow. Sallow, pock-marked face. Purple bruising under the eyes. Looks over 40 but you know better. A foreign smile mangles it. It’s Jean, a grisly halo of blood encircling his waxen visage.

Horror grips you. He’s been shot in the head. His left. Above the ear. You can see his fucking  _ skull,  _ dull white peering out from under veils of sacred tissue. There are no bits of visible brain matter, but you have not-

“Shit!” Gottlieb slams down beside Harry and hunches over, peering into the side of Vicquemare’s head. You cannot see the injury anymore. Harry is shaking; he still has line of sight. You grip his shoulder. He stills.

“Harry,” Gottlieb says, tight and controlled, “take this.” He shoves a thick pad of gauze into the detective’s hand. “His skull isn’t goddamn shattered. Press that into it, but not too hard.” Harry does so. Large, quavering hands cup officer’s head. A calloused thumb brushes over an eyelash.

Your gaze wanders lower. Gottlieb sees it before you do. There is another wound: another graze on the right side of the officer’s torso, beginning just above the hip. It is bleeding sluggishly, Vicquemare’s hand partially covering it from view. Gottlieb pulls out even more gauze, then begins pressing down on it. Each movement is fast and precise; he has done this many times before. 

“Kitsuragi,” Gottlieb grits out. You stand to attention. “Check on the other body. Determine if it’s alive. Also, get rid of this crowd.” You nod. Gottlieb begins to check if the officer is breathing. You turn away. A young girl, blond hair, working class, of around 12, ogles at Vicquemare only several meters away. A man in a ratty coat dashes over and hurriedly covers her eyes, then begins ushering her away from the scene. You still do not hear the wail of ambulance sirens.

You gather yourself, pouring steel into your spine. Authority shines its dull metal glow within you: “Leave this area. RCM business. Anyone who does not cooperate is liable to a station referral and a 100 reál fine.” Your voice does not tremble. You make sure of it.

As the crowd doggedly backs off, you march towards the other body, hands locked in vise-like grip behind your back. You take a knee beside it, then turn it over. It is male. Around 23. Previously covered by his long, ebony hair, you see a hole — a paper screen of skin torn asunder, unveiling a gaping chasm of red meant to be forever private, spilling obsolete life into cold earth like tepid water from a rusted pail — in the center of the man’s neck. You catch a glimpse of gunmetal lodged in bone. A good shot. 

The man may have survived for a short time after, choking on blood, unable to feel anything under his chin.

Sirens wail in the distance. Finally. They will most likely arrive in less than two minutes.

You place your hands on the man’s chest, close your eyes, breathe out, remove your hands, then stand. You can conduct a more thorough examination later. Revachol’s cold will preserve the body, as it did in Martinaise.

“Fuck!” the Lazareth shouts. You pivot. “Dolores fucking Dei, he stopped breathing!”

“Kitsuragi,” he orders. “You take Harry’s place.” He snaps to Harry: “Get in here, now. You remember your fucking first-aid training, right?”

Harry wordlessly places one hand on top another, locks his elbows, and begins violently, rhythmically thumping Vicquemare’s chest. You crouch beside the officer’s head and hold it. His skin is so, so cold. “Harry, you have the press  _ deeper _ ,” Gottlieb grunts. Harry shows no sign of acknowledgement, eyes blown wide, but his arms seize up and he begins pounding,  _ hard _ . A dull, wet snap, then the crunch of a broken sternum with each pump. You look at Harry’s face. It is twisted into something ugly and anguished, something you wish you had not seen.

You shove the detective aside. “Take care of his head, detective!” He scrambles to comply. The sirens get louder. Bone gives way under your every shove, pushing into the flesh, into the soft organs beneath. A glimpse of neon red and blue, cast up on desolate grey walls. 

You grit your teeth. You press harder. The snow, the blood. Sirens. Harsh stone pressing into your aching knees. A man you trust, dying under your trembling hands. It is Martinaise again.

It’s Eyes again.

The ambulance arrives.


	2. You Stay

The clock ticks on the wall, inoffensive abstract painting hanging half a meter to the right. 16:56. Paint chips beneath it. It seems decades old. 

“Harry.”

He doesn’t answer. He fiddles his thumbs. His foot taps on the sterile tiles below. You sigh.

“ _ Officer. _ ” The detective startles. “There is nothing we can do here.” A small screech of plastic as Harry slumps further in his small chair, one of many lined up along the hospital hallway.

You stand tall above him. He avoids your eyes. The Satellite-Officer’s flask and gun rest in his lap. You wait, hands on the verge of cramping, folded tightly behind you.

“Kim, we can’t just leave him here,” he protests weakly, hands splayed in front of him. A strange feeling stirs in your gut.

You sigh. Gottlieb left the hospital half an hour ago in a bus, volunteering to report to Pryce for the both of you. He requested you contact the station for any updates. The Satellite-Officer’s condition is still unknown, but there is a body lying in a street that needs to be identified and placed in a morgue. 

Besides, you need to get out of this place, preferably sooner rather than later.

“Kim…”

“Yes,” you bite out. Disinfectant fills your sinuses, burning.

“Please.” Harry looks you in the eye. “I can’t leave.”

You regard the man before you. He straightens slightly, hands gripping his knees. Breathes in. Pools of absorbed blood dry and flake away under his fingers. Dark red lines the underside of his cracked fingernails. The pants will either need to be industrially washed or thrown away. The blue tie, too.

The eyes, however. The bags under are defined, more so than usual, but there is something impenetrable there. You do not linger long enough to determine exactly what it is.

One thing is clear, among the mess of discordant observations filing themselves in your head for later dissection: he will not leave. Not for anything. And if you  _ make  _ him, he will never trust you again.

“Kim?” 

You have been silent for too long. You decide.

The chair is uncomfortable against your back and squeaks as you settle into it. Harry stares at you, wonderment in his eyes. It is too much; you look away, straight at the opposite wall. The smell of sanitized death fills you, but you do not budge.

Beside you, a low, painfully relieved voice whispers: “Thank you.”

You close your eyes. You prepare yourself for the long haul.

. . .

At one point, Harry began to lean into your shoulder, soft snores rumbling into the point of contact. You do not push him away.

. . .

A woman clad in surgical blues walks into the hallway. Short red-hair, streaked with grey. Dark eyes. In her late 40s. Steel in every boot click on the tile floor. Obviously of the upper echelons in the hospital hierarchy. You shake your partner awake. He blearily rubs his eyes, then shoots up out of his seat once he spots the woman. He runs over. You follow.

“Um, uh.” He stumbles to a stop in front of her. “Ma’am-”

She ignores him. “Surgeon General Bisset.” She reaches out a hand towards you. You take it. 

“Dr. Bisset,” you say. Her hand is cold. You recall Gottlieb remarking that she is “a mean son of a bitch” who “gets the job done.” “I am Lieutenant Kitsuragi and this is my partner Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Du Bois. We are from the same precinct as Satellite-Officer Vicquemare. Do you-”

“Yes, Jean. I am aware.” You pull your hand away. You notice a wink of metal between her lips. Her right canine has been replaced. It looks sharper than it needs to be.

“Then,” Harry sputters, “How is-”

The woman sighs. You hold your breath.

“Jean’s alive. Thanks to your speedy arrival on scene and effective first aid treatment, we were able to revive him.”

She continues, cataloguing injuries and potential treatment plans, but you do not hear. White noise fills your ears. Vicquemare is alive. He is alive.

Beside you, Harry begins quivering, and then tears begin to pour down his face, fat droplets shattering on tile below. His arms shoot out and suddenly he is kneeling, head down, as if in prayer, with Dr. Bissets hands sandwiched tightly between his.

“Thank you,” he burbles. “Thank you.” The harsh lines of the doctors' faces soften a touch.

She carefully extracts her hands from the man kneeling before her. “You are welcome to stay at the hospital in the spare room, Harry, as usual. You too, Lieutenant. However, we are not allowing any visitors yet, so don’t ask. We’ll let you know when you can.” She angles a sharp glare in Harry’s direction. “And don’t you dare even think about sneaking into his room. You pulled off that stunt last time, but I swear to god, Harrier Du Bois, if you do it again, I will kick you out. Permanently.”

The detective, star of Precinct 41, sheepishly stands up and rubs the back of his head. “Uh, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my mem-”

“Anyways,” She tosses you a key. You catch it effortlessly. She raises an eyebrow. “The spare room is 186. Should be on the next floor right past the men’s bathrooms. Shower there.” Harry opens his mouth. “And no, I won’t tell you what room Jean is in, Harry.” He closes it.

“Have a good night’s rest, gentlemen.” She glances at both of your faces. Nods. “You look like you both need it.” With that, she turns and strides away, the red of her hair a striking contrast to the dull yellow-white of the hospital walls, until it disappears behind a door frame.

You turn to Harry. He turns to you. A moment. 

Something deflates within you. Harry sags, coiled tension finally unravelling out his frame. You check the clock. It is 21:32.

“...I suppose we are staying the night.”

“Yeah.”

“Give me your apartment keys.” He does so, without question. It worries you. “I will bring two sets of spare clothes for you. Is there anything else you want from your apartment?”

“Uh, toothbrush, I guess.” He scratches his arm. “Are you gonna visit the station too?”

You mull it over. “No,” you answer. “I will let them know Vicquemare is recovering through the Kineema. I will be back sooner, then.”

He nods. Shakily smiles. “It’s a plan then.” He holds a hand up for an Ace’s High.

You acquiesce. 

. . .

A click, some static, then Pidieu answers. It is cold inside the Kineema. “Precinct 41. Pidieu speaking. Who is there?” That is distinctively not protocol. You decide not to remark on it.

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” A startled breath. “I-”

“Kitsuragi! How is Jean? Is he alright?” You hear Minot, McLaine, and Torson come to attention close behind him. A deep intake of breath; Minot takes an extra second to compose herself. They should not be at the station at this time.

“The Satellite-Officer is alive and resting.” A collective sigh echoes through the transceiver. A “thank Dolores” is mumbled somewhere in there. “Du Bois and I have decided to stay at the hospital. However, the perpetrator’s body is still at the scene.”

“Yes, Gottlieb told us about that. Torson and McLaine handled it earlier today,” Minot answers. “We ran a background check on him. He was a nobody. A drunk.”

Pidieu answers the radio again. “Do you have any idea when we can visit, officer?”

“Dr. Bisset has not disclosed that information. However, I will inform you when I can.”

“Good ol’ Bisset,” McLaine murmurs. “Fucking hardass about visiting hours.”

“Lieutenant,” Minot calls. “I am sure you and Harry are quite hungry, and the food there is not very good. I’ll bring take out. Do you have a preference?”

“Officer Judit, that won’t be necessary. I am already-”

“I insist, sir.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “...Very well. Kebabs will do.”

“Good choice, Lieutenant. I will be there in 10.” You hear her shuffle away from the radio.

Pideu speaks. “Pryce has given the both of you leave for the next day. Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”

“No. Thank you.” You end the transmission.

. . .

Though it is messier than when you last saw it, there are no shattered glass or empty drug bottles littering the floor of Harry’s apartment. You smile, pick up a pair of pajamas and a more formal outfit, along with a toothbrush, then leave.

The trip to your apartment is also uneventful. Vicquemare’s cigarette butt, left behind in his only visit, is now buried under the ash of others. You stare at the ashtray, compose yourself, then head out the door, clothes and hygienic products in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next chapter will be the last one, and it'll be posted within a bout a week. Comments and kudos are appreciated :)


	3. Goodnight, Officer

You knock on door 186. A muffled “come in.” You enter.

Along the left wall of the large white room are two metal-frame beds, separated by a meter, fitted with sterile white sheets. A table and chair are pushed into the far right corner, and a large window opposite of you gives a comprehensive view of the hospital parking lot. A crumpled, forgotten RCM hat gathers dust underneath the table. On top is Vicquemare’s gun and flask. Cleaned. You see your Kineema outside, five spaces from the entrance, harsh electric lights reflecting off of its blue paint.

Harry and Minot are sitting on the bed furthest from you. You head towards them.

“Hello, sir,” Minot greets. She holds a paper carton with two kebabs sticking out of a pile of rice and vegetables.

“Hi Kim!” Harry excitedly waves. Four empty cartons are scattered behind him. He is holding a fifth in the non-waving hand. You drop a plastic bag with his clothes beside him, then set your duffle bag on the other bed. You sit there. Your watch reads 22:34.

“I see you have started without me.” You smile. Officer Minot hands you some kebabs and a plastic fork. “Thank you.”

“We waited for a bit but you were taking so long,” Minot explains. “Sorry, sir.”

“It is fine.” You take a bite. The meat is still warm. “It took a while to both drive to Harry’s apartment and mine. It takes about a half an hour from either end.” 

Minot nods. You eat in silence.

Harry pipes up. “So Judit and I were thinking,” he casts a conspiratorial glance her way. She grins behind a hand. “We could sneak into Jean’s room tonight.”

You continue eating.

Minot clears her throat. “The receptionist downstairs told me where he is. I had to pull a few favors,” she grins. “He is in room 216. Next floor up.”

You tap your knee several times.

“Come on, Kim. Don’t you want to see how he’s doing?”

You do.

“All of Precinct 41 are familiar with the hospital. Except you and Harry, of course.” She looks apologetic after the last remark. “I should be able to lead you past Bisset and her minions.”

You sigh, take off your glasses, clean them — there is a speck of red that  _ just won’t come off _ — then put them back on. Harry and Minot wait for your response with bated breath. You finally answer. 

“Fuck it. Let’s go visit Vicquemare.” Harry cheers, jumping out of bed, almost spilling the contents of the carton in his right hand. “But,” you hold up a finger. He freezes. “We are first showering and changing.”

Harry looks down at his blood-splattered clothes. He gulps. “Good idea.”

You unzip your duffle bag and pull out a pair of grey flannel joggers, a cotton navy blue shirt, a pair of white socks, and undergarments. You did not pack any soap. You hope the hospital’s brand will be acceptable.

Harry searches in his bag and procures his set of pajamas. They are lavender, made of silk, embroidered with delicate blue forget-me-nots across the collar and cuffs, the symbol of the moralintern. You chose them because they were the cleanest, hanging almost spotless among the stained garments within Harry’s closet.

Minot gasps. You turn. She looks wistful, almost.

“Uh,” Harry says. “Is there something about these pajamas-?”

“No!” Minot exclaims. You wince at her volume. She quiets down. “There is nothing special about those pajamas.” Her face softens. “You should wear them though.”

“...Okay.” Harry starts ambling towards the exit.

“Officer.” Minot turns toward you. “Was it wrong of me to-”

“No, Lieutenant.” The corners of her eyes crinkle. She leans in and whispers into your ear. “You see, Jean gifted him those for his birthday, since Harry was complaining about not getting enough sleep. But, Harry said that a pair of  _ The Man from Hjelmdall  _ themed pajamas would’ve been a much better gift for a supercop. He was drunk at the time.” She stares at Harry’s retreating back. “I thought he would throw them away, or pawn them off at least. Jean too. It seems Harry has kept them.”

You follow her gaze. “Yes, it seems he has.” You stand. “Thank you for telling me, officer. We will be back in less than 10 minutes.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Good luck in getting Harry out of the shower in under half an hour, sir.”

You sigh. “I will speak with him. Farewell.”

She smiles. “Au revoir, Lieutenant.” She waves as you turn to leave.

. . . 

Fifteen minutes later, you find yourself in one of the many hallways of the hospital, following Minot as she inches through, back pressed against the wall. Harry does the same. It is out of place; the hallway is brightly lit. You opt to simply walk, instead.

Room 214. Room 215. And then your target: Room 216. The door is a light, desaturated cyan, with the room number engraved darkly into a white plaque positioned in the center. Judit places a careful hand on the round metal doorknob. It turns without issue. She enters. You and Harry follow.

The room is dark. There are three beds within, with only one occupied. Soft beeps and boops settle in your ears as you all gaze at the officer, pinpricks of machine color casting stars onto pale skin like the luminous dying lights of Revachol, outside. Various wires and tubes frame his form, snaking in and out of each other, branching into unknown extremities, connected to life-giving apparatuses that you thank, silently.

Harry begins slowly approaching the bed, then stops. “Wait, something’s off-”

“Yes, something seems  _ off,  _ doesn’t it, supercop?” You startle. Your companions practically jump as Dr. Bisset emerges from the shadows, corners of her lips twitching, eyes narrowed, arms crossed. She taps the blunt side of a scalpel on her elbow, reflecting moonlight with each motion. “I knew you would try to visit.”

You position yourself behind Harry and resolutely stare out the window, hands in pockets.

“Uh, hi. Dr. Bisset,” Harry stutters. “We were just, shit, uh. We just wanted to get a better view, of the city, that is. You know how it is.”

“Oh, I do. Most would go to the roof, however, and not the immediate floor up.” She places her right hand on her hip, scalpel twirling in her left. She gives you a side-eye. You desperately try to ignore her. “And certainly not intrude in a patient’s room while they’re at it.”

“Dr. Bisset,” Minot pipes up. “We apologize. We just wanted… We wanted to see if he was alright.” She gestures weakly at Vicquemare.

The doctor flashes a sharp smirk, worthy of the knife in her hand. “What, don’t trust in my capabilities? That hurts, Patrol Officer.”

“No no no.” Harry raises his hands in defense. “You are a very capable woman! I think!”

“Thanks, Harry, for that vote of confidence. And you, Lieutenant.” She flicks the tip of the blade in your direction. “You didn’t seem the type to agree to this. I suppose I was wrong.”

The tips of your ears begin to burn. “Khm, yes. Well…”

“Bisset.” She raises an eyebrow at Harry’s mode of address. The scalpel ceases its treacherous dance. “Please. I know you know what it’s like.”

“What’s what like?”

“The wait. The uncertainty.” She ruefully acknowledges with a slight nod. “Please, we’ll only be here for a few minutes. We won’t touch anything. Please.” His voice breaks at the end.

The surgeon closes her eyes, then exhales. Heavily. “Harry, you will be the death of me one day.”

“Sor-”

“No, you’re not.” She heads toward the door. “I’ll give you all some privacy. Five minutes, max. I’ll know if you stay longer.”

“Thank you, doctor. We appreciate it,” you say. Harry and Minot echo your sentiments.

“You better.” The bright white light of the hallway casts her in dramatic shadow. She looks over her shoulder, face in halo, hair lit aflame, dark hand and glinting knife on doorframe. “And also, Kitsuragi.” A dangerous grin slices across her face, silver canine shining within. “Welcome to the 41st.” She disappears out into the hallway, and the door closes behind her.

The three of you stand in stunned silence in the wake of Dr. Bisset. “Oh my god,” Harry breathes. “Holy shit. I thought she was gonna knife us all, right then and there.”

“Yes,” Minot sighs. “She is rather… intense.”

“Indeed,” you quietly remark. “A very dangerous doctor.”

“Well then,” Harry claps his hands. “Let’s go see how he’s doing.”

The three of you shuffle to Vicquemare’s bedside. Harry finds three chairs and drags them over. He and Minot sit on opposite ends. You stand by Harry and look down at the figure in bed.

Vicquemare is the most serene you have ever seen him. Near death has smoothed the creases, softened the brows. Each breath paints glimmering condensation against the inside of the respirator. A monitor keeps in time with his weathered heart. It is simply the man, vulnerable, stripped of the opaque barrier of smoke and anger and sharp retorts that once obfuscated every intention.

It suddenly seems wrong to be here.

The Satellite-Officer’s chest is covered by his blanket. You remember the way bone gave way under your palms, scraping against the jagged vertices of which it was once attached. His chest caving in, again and again and the sucking noise of ruined flesh and blood-

You close your eyes. You breathe out. You open them again. You are fine.

Before you can stop him, Harry places a gentle hand on Vicquemare’s right cheek. “You were supposed to not touch anything, Harry,” Minot softly reminds him. She does not move to correct him, however. You do not either.

“He’s so cold.” He cautiously sweeps Vicquemare’s bangs to the side. Much of it had been shaved off, to operate on his head.

You sigh. “Officer Vicquemare lost a lot of blood. It is understandable.”

Officer Judit’s face scrunches up. She looks close to tears. “Thank you.” Minot whispers. “For saving Vic.”

You stare at one of the last remaining officers of Precinct 41’s demolished Major Crimes Unit: someone who had always rooted for the detective beside you. Someone who had lost another partner, before, in a similarly senseless way Vicquemare had been shot. “Khm. No need, officer. Gottlieb deserves much of the credit.” Harry does not acknowledge the two of you. He continues to silently stare at the man in bed. “We simply performed our duty.”

Minot looks at you strangely, then lets out a small laugh. You raise an eyebrow. “Yes, your duty. It is nothing, Lieutenant. Ignore me.” Your eyebrow twitches, but you consent.

The three of you savor each passing moment, subdued beeps and blinking lights filling the night, rising up and through the window into the familiar, bloodless, uncaring nebulas swirling above. Time is up. You place a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s go, detective.”

Harry casts one last look at his old partner. A man he trusted and loved and maltreated in another life. A man he hopes in now. He drags the back of his hand over his face. “Yeah, let’s.”

You see several tears slip through the lattice barrier of the detective’s fingers. You do not remark on them, and instead place a hand on his elbow and escort him out, leaving the Satellite-Officer alone, in the dark. Finally, at rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the kind of unresolved ending! I've been working on two other fics: one super long, the other a short one shot, and they both currently interest me more than this one. (plus they're far more slashy so look forward to that ;) any jean/harry/kim people out there)
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos are always welcome :)


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